


High Fidelity

by freakylemurcat



Series: Two Good Mechs [14]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Come Shot, Cuckolding, Cunnilingus, M/M, Missionary Position, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Video, Pre-Threesome, Rutting, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Valve Fingering (Transformers), Valve Oral (Transformers), because you wanna get home and suck dicks with your boyfriend, becoming more efficient at your job, but with feels, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: Prowl's off base. Jazz shows Prowl he misses him in non-conventional ways.(AKA that time Jazz co-opted Ironhide into filming porn with him)
Relationships: Ironhide/Jazz, Ironhide/Jazz/Prowl, Jazz/Prowl
Series: Two Good Mechs [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1316021
Comments: 6
Kudos: 78





	High Fidelity

Prowl liked to remind anyone that asked, and many that didn't, that he had not requested to be second in command. It had merely been a logical progression of events, borne by sheer luck and timing and skill. 

Whether it was good or bad luck, Prowl remained divided on. There was some enjoyment in knowing that he was the best mech for the job, that his experience and talent and hard work had not gone unnoticed. 

But then again, the role came with responsibilities like this one - spur of the moment trips halfway across the damned galaxy to assess remote bases and strongholds. At least at Autobot HQ, things were set up the way he liked them, or at least had been wrangled to a tolerable annoyance; here was new chaos and unfamiliar mecha to bring into line, out in the backwaters of the Tau System. 

At least the presence of his bodyguard - Sideswipe and Sunstreaker - meant HQ was spared the worst of its main troublemakers, but, no offence to the twins, Prowl would have picked different companions to travel with. 

His first choice unfortunately was very much in the same situation as him. Jazz had definitely never asked to be Third in Command, and had also fallen into the role as per serendipity, timing and the fact that the title of Spec Ops commander came with a notably decreased lifespan. He had been happier as the crack squad leader, a shadowed menace, and it showed in his lackadaisical attitude to command duties. Prowl did have to give him credit - when the time was right he pulled out the High Command attitude but he was so determinedly non-bureaucratic about it that it was almost charming. 

In an ideal world Prowl would have picked him, because this particular outpost was possibly the safest damn place in the whole galaxy. It was furthest from the Decepticon offensive, well guarded on all sides, on an organic moon with some of the best scenery he had ever come across. His guest quarters overlooked a silvery lake, where strange organic beasts in jewelled carapaces zigzagged peacefully above the water. As the moon orbited its planet, the light-giving stars settled below the horizon in sequence, leaving the surface an eerie pale purple. He could watch it all from the comfort of his berth. It would have been nice to have a warm, contented frame cuddled up at his side as company. 

But of course sending SIC and TIC off in tandem would have been an exceptionally poor tactical decision. So Jazz had given him a jaunty salute of farewell as he had stepped through the spacegate, and here Prowl was: without much to do and with a great big empty berth. 

Ugh. 

* * *

After several cycles of brow-beating mecha into the idea that just because they’d always done it that way didn’t mean it was the best way to do it, the space bridge had hummed to life and a fresh delivery of supplies had arrived. Included was a small package for Prowl - a small box filled with data-chips that he had requisitioned after his first surveys of the base. 

Several he passed onto different engineers and comms officers to upgrade systems, two he handed to the Twins - filled with holovids and games to keep them out of trouble - and then he was left with a spare which he didn’t recognise. 

He wasn’t over duly concerned. Jazz had received the list of required files, and could be trusted, even at his most chaotic and lackadaisical, to get the job done right. The box had had an intact seal on the outside - if this was a plant, then it had been done by a very skilled saboteur. And Jazz had always kept his competition under an iron thumb. 

The chip plugged into his datapad, Prowl ran the firewall protocols quickly and once satisfied there were no nasty surprises, accessed the files. 

There were the usual updates, dry and technical and which he could use to occupy his myriad free time, but there was one interesting vid file tucked away at the back, signed with Ironhide's access code but locked with a tricky adaptive cypher that only  _ Jazz _ could have come up with. 

They had sent him a treat, he could just tell. 

* * *

He left the video file for the rest of the planetary cycle, and retired to his quarters early with a full cube of the fizzy solar energon they brewed here. 

Jazz' cyphers were normally a pain to crack, but this one was a little easier than most. He seemed to have entirely used rude glyphs, and when Prowl entered the final code it was simple -  _ 'sharing' _ . 

The vidfile started and Prowl settled in to watch. 

"This thing is a Primus-damned pain to work," growled Ironhide's rusty old vocaliser, the screen glitching with inference."Which button did ya sa- ah ha!" 

The view was initially of a berth top, a simple teflon sheet, but the camera swerved upwards jerkily and focused on Jazz, lounging back amid cushions Prowl did not recognise. 

He looked loose limbed and relaxed, the faded light of his visor explained by the glass of engex held loosely in his servo. Not drunk by any means, just chilled out. 

"Gonna send your mech a message?" Ironhide rumbled off screen, amused but not mockingly so. He would have to be sitting on the same berth, Prowl realised, to have that view up Jazz' body. 

"We ain’t ones for soppy messages," said Jazz, "He'd start to worry if I sent him that." 

Ironhide snorted. "Ya gotta give him somethin’ more than that! Mech's probably getting blue screws thinkin’ about your shiny aft."

Jazz laughed, setting his engex aside on a low berthside table. "All right then." He focused his visor on the camera. "Hey Prowler, hope Tau System is treating you well. Be gentle with ‘em; they ain’t used to military discipline." 

Ironhide huffed a laugh, and Prowl snorted as well. With a few exceptions, the Autobots were not a military unit. The idea of many at HQ responding to military discipline - especially Jazz himself - was laughable.

"Anyway," said Jazz, leaning back further into the pillows with a luxurious sigh. The camera zoomed in on the flex of his abdomen and the arch of his chest; Ironhide had a surprisingly good optic for aesthetic. Or possibly it was because Jazz just always looked that good. "Me and 'Hide were thinkin’ you’re probably awful bored out there; so we decided to send you somethin’ to keep some of ya occupied.”

Prowl wouldn’t say no. Exclusivity had always been a hard thing to manage in wartime, and if Jazz warmed his struts with Ironhide or anyone else while Prowl was gone that was a non-issue; Prowl as free to do the same with any mech of his choice when Jazz was away. They returned to each other; that was the main thing.

He shuffled into a more relaxed position amid his own pillows, finding a comfortable position to hold the datapad and have an arm free. 

"Gonna have to excuse the shoddy camerawork," Ironhide was saying, even as he panned down over the sleek frame in front of him. "Given I'm gonna be distracted." 

"No worries," said Jazz, "I'll make enough noise anyone’ll be able to tell what's happenin’." 

"Or you could make yourself useful and take it," said Ironhide, and there was a slightly disorientating moment of travel before the picture stabilised, and the camera had to be in Jazz' hands now. Up close and personal, his face plates had the faint flush of an engex buzz.

He blew an air kiss, all cheek and sass, and then turned the camera around, so Ironhide was visible on the end of the bed, watching with an amused smirk. He always looked so smug when he got a chance to 'face Jazz, which in turn only made Prowl feel all the more smug himself - at the end of the cycle, Jazz was his and his alone.

"Showin’ yer conjunx who gets to bed ya tonight?" laughed the mech. "Bit mean." 

"Oh shut up," said Jazz. “It’ll only be mean if ya make us wait.”

Ironhide eased himself up the berth, balanced on his hands and knees at Jazz' pedes. Slowly, he crawled up, and with a devilish glint in his optics, he bowed his head right at Jazz' codpiece, pressing a line of soft smooth kisses up his frame. Prowl couldn’t help but touch his own lips, almost feeling the smooth warm metal under his own mouth, the buttery softness of fresh wax melting on his glossa. 

Jazz let his hand fall put to the side, keeping the camera lens fixed on his helm so Prowl could watch Ironhide lay biting kisses over his collar fairing and the lines of his throat cables. He had always liked being kissed there, and bitten too; his head draped back and his mouth fell open in a soft sigh of pleasure. 

"Come 'ere," growled Ironhide, nipping over the sharp line of Jazz' jaw, right to the faint scar on the left corner of his mouth where he had once bitten right through his own lip in a fit of ecstasy. Prowl remained very proud of that little scar, and watched with his temperature climbing degrees every klik as they kissed deeply. 

Under Ironhide's ministrations, Jazz was sweet and pliable, letting him turn him this way and that, slip his tongue deeply into his mouth. He was adaptable, to play so submissive here but play off Prowl's wants so well. Ironhide liked his partners meek and soft - if that's what the mech liked then that was what the mech liked - but Prowl liked Jazz when he was sassy and tricky. He would not let Prowl pin him so easily as he did Ironhide, nor be so passive when Ironhide drew back to lap over Jazz' headlights.

Big servos eclipsed the shiny chrome of his bumper, squeezed and rubbed circles on the bright metal until the mech squealed and wriggled. 

"Cute," said Ironhide, tweaking a wire again to make Jazz squeak again. "Still got the camera?" 

"Yeah," said Jazz. "Still got it."

Ironhide grinned. "Lemme see if I can make ya drop it." He ducked further down, sliding his big hands down sleek flanks, until he was crouched over Jazz' legs. "Open up, pretty thing." 

There was the soft whirr of intimate plating shifting back, and Ironhide's grin became lecherous. 

"Looks like puttin’ on a show gets ya goin’, huh?" He pressed big hands over Jazz' hips, sliding both thumbs down between his legs. His digits were noticeably wet when they were withdrawn, and 'Hide traced a lewd glyph on Jazz’ abdominal plating before he popped his thumb in his mouth and licked it clean. "Tastes pretty good. Shoulda let ‘im have a glimpse before I ruin ya?" 

The camera exchanged hands and Ironhide gave Prowl a long slow look over Jazz' frame, already flushed and debauched, down over his taut belly, where his vents were wide open and steaming softly, and down, down, down to the crux of his thighs. Legs cast out wide, his valve was just visible and Prowl watched with a suddenly stuttering fuel pump as he leant down further. He could see the soft mesh throbbing gently with the pink tinge of energon, the silver matte of Jazz’ protoform unblemished and the biolights ringing the entrance vivid. Ironhide's big thumb digit swept a firm glide over the anterior node, a brilliant cobalt blue, and Prowl could hear the purr of Jazz' engine double to a roar. 

"Already drippin’," said Ironhide, sliding a digit deep without preamble, then another. True enough slick lubricants created an iridescent sheen on the matte mesh, and puddled in 'Hide's palm. "Could drink this stuff right from the tap." 

Again the disorientation of movement and then Prowl had the view down Jazz' squirming body as Ironhide ducked his helm between thick thighs, mouth clearly active. 

"Slag," groaned Jazz, in a tone that made Prowl's fans kick on with a wheeze. "Ah mech, yeah..." 

The knowledge of where 'Hide’s mouth was made Prowl's own start to water. The last time he had gone down on Jazz' valve had been the off-shift before he had left; kneeling at his pedes, one leg cast over a shoulder so he could lick broad strokes over that sweet valve, coat his face in slick fluid. The memory broke his control, and his spike panel withdrew sharply so the protoform underneath could thicken upwards. Having his mouth on Jazz' valve was only second in pleasure to Jazz' mouth on his own protoform. 

On the screen, Jazz was moaning softly, hips hitching up against the heavy hold on his thighs. Everytime Ironhide inclined his belm to pay extra attention to the node at the top, he ran the risk of having his helm crushed by Jazz' strong thighs… Prowl watched open-mouthed as Jazz arched his back in pleasure at whatever nee trick 'Hide had just pulled, the first true cry escaping his vocaliser. 

"Frag," whined Jazz, grinding down into the touch. "Ain't fair the way you use that glossa."

"Mmh," Ironhide eased back a little. "If yer complainin’ I aint workin’ hard enough." 

He must have doubled his efforts judging by the sounds that started to fall from Jazz' vocaliser, those deep moans and breathy words that never failed to stir Prowl's libido. Drops of transfluid had already started to leak at the tip of his spike, stirred by the filthy things spilling from his lover's mouth. Jazz always had the best imagination, and with his voice hitching with arousal the presentation was even better. 

It had a level of detail that implied Jazz had maybe been playing with the story for a while, a gasped visual of an entanglement between the three of them, maybe ‘Hide playing that talented glossa over Jazz’ node as Prowl settled on Ironhide’s lap, maybe Jazz pinioned between them as they fragged his valve and aft in tandem, maybe Prowl kissing Jazz around Ironhide’s spike...

Prowl had to take a moment to consider that in full technicolour glory - his own mouth watering at the thought of ‘Hide’s thick spike, the sweet taste of Jazz’ glossa beyond it. On screen, Hide appeared to pause too because Jazz whined and squirmed his hips down. 

“Don’t leave me hangin’,” he complained, and the glint in Ironhide’s optics was challenging. He reached around to grip Jazz’ wide hips and pull him closer to his mouth, until the mech was panting and gasping and the viewscreen tilted further and further to the left as some important gyroscope lost its centre. Prowl could tell how close he was to overload, just by the change in timbre of his groans, how that right knee joint drew up slightly - a tell he’d never manage to quash - and finally the fizz of static across the camera’s screen as the electrical charge swept over his lover’s body. 

Prowl writhed in envy, engine revving and spike leaking silvery droplets that smoothed the grip he now took on himself. He was already sensitive enough that his own digits made him groan. 

On screen, Ironhide looked triumphant, chin wet and mouth nearly dripping with lubricant. "Sure makes a pretty picture when he overloads, don't he?" 

The affirmative sound crackled through Prowl's vocaliser weakly. 

"Yeah. I think I'll frag him while he's still cracklin’ offa that last one. Never get tired of it around my spike." 

The vision of Ironhide's spike, red and silver platelets tight around the thick protoform, pressed between the soft petals of Jazz' ready valve was nearly enough for Prowl; his charge surged heavily, just a few volts off a true peak. Unwilling to let it be over yet he tightened his grip at the base of his spike, just to the point of discomfort, staving his overload off. When he could look back at the screen he didn't dare let his grip relax - Ironhide was gently thrusting, the tip of his spike slipping back and forth, bumping into Jazz' node until it was flushed and glowing a new luminescent blue. 

"Primus, that's pretty," said Ironhide, voice low and husky. He nosed the blunt tip in and pushed forward, groaning softly. "Feels just as good as well." 

Prowl invented sharply. He rolled his hand down the length of his spike, replicating the slow slide he was watching as Ironhide sunk into Jazz' valve. His palm was a pale comparison to what he knew was plush and silky slick but an excellent memory and the visual reminder was just enough. He watched rapt, absorbing the minute details as Ironhide sank in deep on that first pass, until the edges of his pelvic armour tapped Jazz’s aft.

“Primus,” repeated Ironhide, sounding reverent. He stroked a thumb over Jazz’ node, stretched his digits down to rub the mesh stretching around his spike; the mech in question making a keening moan loud enough that Prowl groaned in tandem. He pulled back until just the tip was still inside and then thrust deep again, and Jazz tightened his thighs until the visible cables in his hips trembled with the strain. 

“Ya better frag me now,” Jazz growled, and Ironhide panned the camera up to catch the snarl on his lips, tinged with more than a bit of desperation. 

“I’m just enjoyin’ the sight,” he chuckled, “Thought ya wanted to make sure Prowl had a good watch?”

“Yeah! But I wanted to get my own circuits off too,” said Jazz, “And none of us are gonna get anywhere if ya don’t frag me!”

Ironhide made a faux tutting noise. “Demandin’. Did I not already give ya an overload?”

“Not the time for semantics,” hissed Jazz. Despite his own aching charge, Prowl felt a smile come unbidden - when Jazz became desperate, he did become a bit of a bossy scraplet. Ironhide obviously felt the same - he chuckled and there was a blur of movement as the camera was tossed to the side. 

It refocused on a view that had Prowl’s grasp on his own spike tightening again. Ironhide was leaning down over his lover, hitching his hips in hard short thrusts, pulling Jazz down against him with a firm grip on his waist. Jazz had his helm tossed back, one hand knotted in the sheet, the other down between his own legs. Prowl couldn’t take his optics off the vid, greedily drinking in the sight as Ironhide hitched a thick thigh higher over his own hips so he could drive in deeper, harder, until Jazz was gasping faint curses with every thrust. 

Primus, Prowl didn’t know whether he wanted to be Ironhide or just be in the room with them. He could sit at the edge of the berth or across the room and watch in helpless lust, but with the added benefit of hearing the soft sounds the camera couldn’t detect, feel the electrical eddies in their fields, maybe even beg for a little something extra. His spike leaked a thicker stream of fluids at the thought, and he sped his own pace up to match Ironhide’s rhythm on the vid. 

He would have given a doorwing to be able to be close enough to reach over and caress Jazz’ smooth cheek, or grope at his perky bumper, run hands over Ironhide’s strong back. He would slip his fingers into Jazz’s nimble mouth, a facsimile of his own spike which would ache in his spare hand as it did now, and he could almost feel Jazz’ glossa curl around his digits obligingly. 

This overload wasn’t a slow build like the first, but more of a hammer blow that had Jazz go from bleating nonsense to gasping silence in kliks. Ironhide fucked him through it, keeping up the brutal pace that had him popping off so quickly, and Prowl had no hope of holding on through this one. His spike throbbed in his palm, spilling thick transfluids over his digits and belly in strut curling pulses. The datapad slipped from his grasp, and he had to fumble for it near-blind through the pleasure for fear of missing any of Jazz' beautiful sounds as he overloaded.

His optics cleared of static in time to grant him a first hand view of his lover coming down the other side, whole frame twitching with aftershocks and dazed pleasure. The camera view was crooked, a soft curve of the teflon sheet just visible in the bottom of the picture where it had been dropped onto the berth. 

“Ok, ok,” Jazz slurred, mouth curving in a wide, stunned smile, “I give, I give.”

Ironhide chuckled, leaning down that further bit so he could press a slow, sensual kiss to Jazz’ mouth, garnering another groan as his spike slipped that tiny bit deeper. “Got what ya wanted, did ya?” Jazz nodded. “Good. Now roll over and grab the camera. Give your Prowler a good view of your face…”

It was the best sort of torture, watching Jazz’ flushed face run through several expressions as Ironhide fragged him from behind, already spent and drowsy with the pleasure of his own overload. Jazz was desperate and destroyed, open mouthed, visor glowing iridescently with charge even as the hydraulics in his arms failed and dropped him into the sheets. Prowl rested the heel of his hand on his spike, almost enjoying the aching sensation overtaking his array as he watched the final few moments. 

When Ironhide overloaded, it was with a harsh moan, and crackles of electricity sizzled over Jazz’ frame, evaporating condensation from his shoulders instantly. Jazz groaned deeply, digging his dentae deeply into his own lower lip at the sensation. He had always loved it, the hot pulse over deep nodes; Prowl didn’t entirely understand, but it had never been a trial to oblige. Ironhide clearly felt the same, he thrust deep a few more times and then took the camera back by leaning down over Jazz’s curled spinal struts. 

“Remember that before-shot?” he said, smug satisfaction writ large on his craggy face. “Wanna see the mess I’ve made of your pretty berth-toy?”

His spike was only beginning to depressurise as it slipped out, Jazz’ valve well-used and dripping with lubricant and transfluids. Beads of liquid ran down over his node occasionally, making all his cables tense up sharply. Ironhide slipped two bulky fingers in, crooking and curling, until more thick transfluid escaped; Jazz swore distantly. So did Prowl, his spike throbbing hard and his tanks nearly cramping with a weak surge of charge. 

“Lovely,” said Ironhide. He patted one side of Jazz’ shapely aft, almost affectionately. “Best ride this side of Tau System. At least until Prowl gets back, o’course.”

“Hey!” said Jazz, flopping over with an ungainliness that only served to prove how little pressure he was maintaining in his hydraulics. “I’m best even when Prowler’s here!”

“When he gets back, maybe you two oughta have a competition,” said Ironhide. “I volunteer as the judge.”

“Slagger,” said Jazz fondly. He reached out and was handed the camera again. “Hey Prowler, ya hear that? Better get home soon before I get too much practice in, yeah?”

The recording ended there. 

Prowl blearily surveyed the mess of his berth - the tousled sheets where his feet had scrabbled for grip and the drying spill over his belly and array - and sighed, tucked the datapad away for safe-keeping. His tac-unit was already thrumming with plans - he would clean up, sleep and then set to sorting out the problems of Tau system ASAP. 

And then he could get home and show Jazz exactly who was going to win that challenge. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE RISEN
> 
> with more porn.


End file.
